Chapter 17 Marienne
Marienne
The morning feels… wrong.
The hallways are too quiet without the sound of Tamsin’s boots against the stone. There’s no curt voice reminding us to keep the day in order, no watchful shadow in the corner of my eye.
I told myself I would relish the peace. After all, wasn’t this how it was before she came? Just me and my little bats, with no stern knight to scowl at our chaos.
But the air feels thinner.
The children notice it too. Liri clings to my skirts. Yla drags her feet. Even Imara, who usually relishes a morning free of Tamsin’s drills, keeps glancing toward the door as though she half-expects her to appear.
So, I do what I think is best…
I announce that I will be conducting our very own swordplay lesson in the absence of our knight.
It starts well enough. I hand out the wooden swords with the appropriate amount of ceremony.
Yla decides that Moonblossom—her sword—doesn’t feel like Moonblossom without Ser Tamsin present and therefore renames it Moonfang instead. A considerably more aggressive name. I don’t know how to feel about that.
Imara rolls her eyes and tells her she’ll never win a fight if she keeps changing her sword’s name mid-battle.
I tell them to stand tall, just like Tamsin does. I try to remember the way she moves her shoulders, the set of her stance. I plant my feet. I demonstrate.
It feels absurd.
Callen fumbles the sword twice. Liri bursts into tears when Imara corrects her footwork. Vess, utterly unbothered, tries to bite the practice dummy nearby.
I clap my hands. “Again!”
It doesn’t help.
The sun slants through the clouds above, and Siven wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve. Yla starts poking Callen with her sword just to see if she’ll squeak. Liri sits down in the grass and announces she’s done.
And then, like storm clouds thickening, the meltdown begins.
Callen drops her sword and shouts at Yla. Yla shouts back. Imara steps in to help, only to be accused of taking sides. Liri wails louder. Siven covers her ears. Vess starts crying too.
I take a deep breath. Tamsin would bark an order. She’d cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
But I am not Tamsin.
Instead, I step forward and scoop Vess into my arms, then crouch to comfort Liri. I tell the others we’re done for today.
Eventually, I usher them all back inside, talking softly, promising tea and biscuits and a bit of blood.
The lesson dissolves into crumbs and chatter at the kitchen table.
I sit with them, smiling, listening, but there’s a hollow spot in the rhythm of the day.
And when Siven quietly asks, “When will Ser Tamsin be back?”
I find myself saying, without thinking, “Soon, my little bat. Very soon.”